This forum is used to post one-author stories taking place in the past. For stories following characters in current events or ongoing RP, please post to the Alliance, Horde, or Cross-Faction forums instead.

(( I keep finding snippets of old stories here and there. Since the big arc's in which they often appeared are long gone since Sherman destroyed the Old Sanctum, I can only re-post them as the snippets they are, with OOC annotations as needed to help clarify what was happening.

This first one is one of the earliest things I wrote on the main, Ravenholdt forums back when RP stories regularly appeared there. It was written in response to an open RP in which a Blood Elf was cheerfully picking flowers in the fields near South Shore, before the Forsaken made it one of their godsawful trailer-parks. I also had to modify Fagerboozle's name to its phonetic equivalent, due to the forum's wonky habit of not letting you talk about drapes or therapists, etc.))

The Elf and the Dwarf

Meanwhile, far across the mountains of Dun Morogh....

Two men sat at a moderately clean table in the Lion's Pride Inn. One was tall and lean, with thick, blue-black hair hanging to his waist. His beard was trimmed, neatly framing his handsome, chiseled face. The tips of his long, tapered ears stuck out far above his head. Several small hoops of gold pierced through the thick cartilage of one ear, tinkling softly whenever the elf turned his head. Beside him, his companion was almost comically different. Thick-bodied, and heavily muscled, the dwarf was noisily chewed his way through a thick slab of ham, pausing only to alternate with a bite of buttered bread, or a gulp of frothy dark ale. His coppery-gold hair was pulled into an unruly ponytail at the back of his head, while his equally bright beard and moustache collected an impressive inventory of crumbs. He had just taken another swig of ale, when his elven companion groaned, clutching the edge of the table, suddenly pale.

"Wot's wrong with yeh, then, Xey?" muttered the Dwarf. "Told y'ta stay away from them salads, I did. They just gives ya gas, an' there's nothin' worse in this world than elf farts...."

The elf gasped and sat back looking worried. "No, Fayger. This is no salad." Xelas glanced at the Dwarf with a haunted expression. "It's as if dozens of daisies cried out in terror... and were suddenly silenced."

The Dwarf chewed wordlessly for several seconds before leaning forward and squinting at his companion.

"Oh no! That's... my starboard, or your starboard?" The elf stood up, trying to glance at his behind. "Wait... how can you even see my starboard..."

"That's yer stern, ye ridiculous cupcake-pirate. Oy." Fayger stuffed another chunk of bread in his mouth and blew crumbs as he huffed in exasperation. "Besides, since when is yer nose in yer trousers."

The elf paused, perplexed. "Is that a trick question?...."

Last edited by LEGION on September 13th, 2014, 7:44 pm, edited 3 times in total.

(( This one appeared as aftermath to part of a series of battles over Lakeshire that took place a couple of years ago.))

The dwarf was kinda cute, in a cheerful, plump...creepy...sort of way. Corporal McElroy noticed she hummed a jaunty tune to herself as she walked down the boardwalk to the bridge leading out of Redridge. She paused, checking bodies along the way, as she moved among the injured and dead around the docks of Lakeshire. Long, red pigtails swung in time to her steps or spilled over her shoulder as she bent to lay a healing spell upon a wound, or ask how a patient was feeling.

McElroy had been very grateful when the dwarf and several others had swooped in from Stormwind to aid the beleagered town against a small raid of orcs. The orcs had appeared as Blackrocks of some stripe or another, but more vicious. And yet, watching the orcs practically melt and scatter under the whirlwind assault of the Stormwind reinforcements, McElroy almost questioned why they had been a threat at all.

Still, the orcs had killed several of the town guard, and there was no question that the standing milita left in place would have been unable to protect Lakeshire. So he had followed along after the dwarven healer as she made her rounds, trying to be of some assistance -- but mostly to marvel in semi-reverent awe at her utter lack of fear or horror at the carnage around her. They had just started across the bridge when the dwarf halted, standing stock-still.

McElroy saw what had fixed her attention. The corpse of one of the orcs lay on the bridge. One arm had been nearly hewn off, and its back was cratered with deep puncture wounds. At first, the guard had thought that the dwarven healer was frozen in horror at the sight of the hulking, greenskin. He tried to turn the dwarf away but she turned right back around, pushing past him. Her expression blossomed into a delighted grin. McElroy watched as she unslung a heavy shield from her back. She gave the corpse a kick, pushing it over onto its back. Thick, black hair covered its head and lower jaw. Then the dwarf raised her shield, carefully aiming it, and brought its edge down on the orc's face with a meaty crunch. She paused to inspect her work before applying the edge of the shield again, this time breaking the creature's lower jaw and splitting its face. She looked up at McElroy with a dimpled smile and a cute wrinkling of her nose. "Easier if I break things up a little," she said. At which point she knelt, setting the shield aside as she drew a skinning knife. She used the handle to aim more precise strikes at the orc's lower jaw, until finally she had her prizes. She held the two bloody tusks up, one aside each of her ears. "Taa-daaa!" she said triumphantly. "Earrings!"

McElroy winced, "That's nice!" he lied.

The dwarf tucked her trophies away, and looked at the corpse thoughtfully.

"You know," offered McElroy,"we're going to be building a pyre to take care of all that. I'll have a detail pick this one up and..."

"Oh! Not yet!" wailed the dwarf. "I'm feeling creative. Artistic. I just need a few minutes to decide what kind of present to make."

"Present?" McElroy was almost afraid to ask. Creepy was winning out over cute very quickly.

"We...do?" replied McElroy, weakly. It was all right there. The round, cherubic face. The rosy-lipped, dimpled smile. The girlish pigtails trailing playfully to her waist. McElroy reached her sparkling, brown eyes, and something in their depths made his stomach turn.

"Of course, we do," she said, cheerily. This time, though, McElroy could hear the deadly undertones.

The guard watched in horrified fascination as the dwarf examined the orc's corpse from every angle. At one point she even asked his opinion on whether he thought she could fit the creature's head into its rectum, or even just remove its buttocks entirely, intact. McElroy vaguely recalled babbling some kind of reply which --thankfully-- resulted in the dwarf abandoning the idea of 'butt sculpture' altogether. Instead, she rummaged in her pack, bringing out a long strip of leather lacing, and began hastily lashing the orc's face back together. Approximately. She rifled through the creature's belongings -- bits of chainmail and a hunters' bow -- and found something that appeared to be an insignia or personal item, which she dropped into the orc's ruined maw. She glanced over her shoulder, "Want to be sure they know who it is!" and gave McElroy a broad wink. Then, the dwarf began cutting the orc's trousers away. She rolled the orc onto its back, exposing its genitals. McElroy found himself wincing, as the dwarf deftly sliced off the delicate organs. She briefly inspected the contents of the scrotum, plucking one mangled testicle out of the pouch of skin. She looked at the guard, "Eeew... not artistic at all." She lobbed the bit of flesh off the bridge towards the nest of murlocs. "Lunchtime!" she yelled. The remainder of the orc's genitals appeared to be in satisfactory condition, at which point the dwarf jammed them into the orc's broken mouth. She then wiped her hands off onto the rags of the orc's clothing and went rummaging into her pack again, this time drawing out a length of wide, pink ribbon. She ran the ribbon around the back of the orc's head, bringing the ends to the front and tying them into a big, pink bow over its stuffed mouth.

"There!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it just adorable?"

Bewildered McElroy was shaking his head. "...Y-Yes?" he agreed, automatically. The guard couldn't quite decide if he was relieved or terrified that this person was presumably on his side.

"They're gonna LOVE it," she said with a little wave. The dwarf then called down an odd-colored drake. The creature picked up the corpse gently in its claws as the dwarf scrambled onto its back. "Time to deliver our little friend!" She clapped her hands in excitement. McElroy stood silently as the large drake launched itself into the air, gruesome 'present' in its claws, and flew low into the orc-infested hills overlooking the town.

McElroy shook his head. He had the overwhelming feeling that the dwarf's 'present' was going to go over like... like an orc with his own dick in his mouth.

(( This marks the start of a series in which the Indelibles decided to roll pirate toons back during BC. The only character I'm aware that survived this project is Diggsby, now known by the alias Leslie Dixon of the Stormwind City Guard. ))

Lizzie Diggsby, known to the crew of The Moonlit as "Diggs," signed the Bill of Intent which itemized all the goods she purchasing to restock The Moonlit. The Ship Chandler, a rather old-looking Tauren with one broken horn grunted with approval.

"You want us to deliver that alongside?" asked the Chandler.

"Aye," replied Diggs, "Dawn, if possible. Not sure we'll have hands aboard to help with the loading before then. At least, not sober ones," she added. The First Mate of The Moonlit rubbed the top of her head, absently, causing her close-cropped brush of auburn hair to stand up in wild spikes.

"Which berth?" replied the Tauren, automatically.

It was almost a trick question. Booty Bay was a small port for all its busy traffic. There were only three possible moorings for a ship of The Moonlit's tonnage.

"South harbor," said Diggs.

As they spoke, a thin, pinch-faced goblin pushed past Diggs, handing the Chandler a ratty-looking sheaf of papers, and then pushed his way out again.

"Looks like you're not going anywhere. May want to rethink those supplies for a while."

Diggs leaned over the counter, as the Tauren showed her the Writ of Seizure. Diggs lips worked silently as she read through the tangle of legalese. Her brows knitted into deeper furrows of anger when she finally puzzled it out. Long and short, the goblins had impounded The Moonlit.

"Sorry, Pinkie," replied the Chandler. "Looks like the Gobbos got themself a 'special tax' this week. Dunno who you didn't make friends with, but it looks like they not gonna bother kissin' you, now."

Diggs cut loose with an even more colorful stream of invectives. Cap'n was always so careful -- they flew different colors when they raided up north, made sure to change to the ones registerd to The Moonlit only when they were out to deep sea. No, he ran a tight ship, and between Diggs and himself, they ran even tighter books. The likelihood of anyone recognizing that they were smuggling Azsharan artifacts was so small as to be impossible. Something was up. Diggs ducked out of the Shipping Chandler's office, pulling on her cap and drawing it low over her eyes. Within moments, she assumed the slow, careful gait of a drunk. She staggered and wove her way down to the docks, passing several disinterested Bruisers. When she got alongside The Moonlit, she stood swaying for a minute or two before turning and weaving away into the darkness again. In those few minutes, she had managed to see that none of the other crew members were abovedecks, and that at least two Bruisers were stationed on the helm, playing cards. She ducked behind the building which served as a bank and auction house, and stripped down to thin, vaguely unflattering undergarments. She tucked the coin purse containing the gold meant for supplies securely within the bands of the bandage she wore around her chest in an effort to flatten herself into a passable boy. It worked fairly well under enough grime and loose clothing. Now, of course, it just made her look like a wiry, scruffy slip of a woman, completely unblessed by nature with any attributes that could be called 'alluring.' She bundled her clothes and boots together, tucking them behind a barrel. She strapped sheaths containing rather wicked looking daggers to the outside of each thigh before lowering herself into the shallows behind the bank. Diggs bit back a curse at the chill of the water, which was much cooler under the constant breezes from the west, and without the warmth of the sun. She swam silently around the pilings of the docks, careful to avoid the circles of light created by the torches lining the walkways throughout the town.

She reached the front of The Moonlit where the anchor chain dropped off into the depths of the Bay. Straining to hear if her movements in the water were detected, Diggs carefully shimmied up the chain until she reached the edge of the ship. Still no movement on the deck besides the cackle of the two goblins onboard, playing cards. She gripped the gunwale, quietly lifting and curling her body over the edge onto the deck. She slipped from one group of shadows to the next, matching her gait to the natural creak of the ship as it rolled gently in the harbor. Another gale of nasal laughter from the Bruisers. Diggs ducked into the captain's cabin, feeling her way through the darkness. She found his berth, which was of course was far more comfortable than any of the other crew's racks. It was standalone, four posts anchoring it to the deck. She felt along one of the posts until she located the compartment drawer hidden just underneath the frame. Diggs popped it open and dug questing fingers inside. Sure enough, Cap'n had left her a note. She plucked it out of its hiding spot. She would have to try to read it before she went back into the water. She made her way back out of the cabin and managed to angle herself to get enough light to read the hasty and cramped script on the small scrap of paper.

A pig whistles, just before it flies. Diggs snorted. Not the best code, but a reader unfamiliar with The Moonlit's regular routes wouldn't realize that it meant The Pig and Whistle in Stormwind. Not her favorite place, but it beat the hell out of the gallows at Northwatch. Now the trick was to find the rest of the crew and spring them. They could make their way overland if they had to until....

A gun cocked behind her. Diggs froze.

"Well-well-well," drawled a gravelly voice. "Seems we got us a stowaway."

Slowly, Diggs turned around, showing empty hands. The scrap of paper floated overboard. Both the Bruisers had guns trained on her, now. The second Bruiser scoffed. "Not much of a prize, that's fer sure. All scars an' bones. Couldn't sell her even if I threw in a horse for free." Great. She'd heard of people disappearing from some of the neutral goblin towns, and it was whispered there were a few slavery rings that probably fed some of the more unsavory cults with sacrifices and fodder for similarly unpleasant practices. The fact that she wasn't viewed as a suitable candidate for a buyer did nothing to reassure her. It meant she was expendable.

"Uh... First Mate of the The Moonlit, here," Diggs croaked, mouth gone suddenly dry. "Pretty sure you just want to run me in to jail. Right?" Her tone was that of a suggestion... hopeful, even.

The first goblin assumed an exaggerated look of surprise, "You? First mate? Of this ship?!" he squeaked.

Diggs tensed, "Um... yeah?"

The goblin laughed, a raw, ugly sound.

"Not anymore, princess!"

Diggs was moving even before the guns belched fire at her. She pitched herself over the edge of the ship. She hit the water badly, knocking out what little wind she had in her, but she dove deeper anyway, as shots sizzled into the water around her. She swam out to open sea, lungs burning, oxygen-deprived muscles screaming and running on adrenaline alone. Finally, she kicked her way to the surface and gulped air. Well, there was no going back to Booty Bay tonight.

"Well, plug me, runnin'," she muttered. It was at least five miles across from the Bay to the northern islands, and then another mile up the coast to Westfall. And that was if she swam straight across. Her other options were a trek through the jungles, on foot, alone and nearly naked, or there was a camp of Bloodsails just north of Booty Bay. Swimming, walking, or relying on the hospitality of the Bloodsails -- what a delightful array of choices.

She started listing every possible insult she could remember upon the Goblins and Booty Bay as she started swimming further out to sea.

Then, as the watery miles passed with agonizing slowness, she started making some up.

Last edited by LEGION on September 13th, 2014, 4:28 pm, edited 1 time in total.

Diggsby had made good time across the wide bay and up the coast toward Westfall. However, despite being a strong swimmer, she was tired. The coast was still a jagged dark line across the horizon. She tried to keep it to her right as she edged her way inland. Ahead, she thought she saw the faint flicker of the lighthouse beacon that signaled the southernmost shore of Westfall. Her spirits lifted. She had maybe just a half hour or an hour more of this, and she could put to shore. Out to sea, however, dark clouds had piled up, and were driving inland. Unaware, Diggs only realized the danger when the otherwise calm waters became more and more choppy. The breezes picked up, and before Diggs could make any progress to the shore, the squall line swept in, complete with gale force winds and driving rain. Time and time again, Diggs was picked up by a ten-foot swell, only to be slammed into the valley below it. Each time she was buried and tumbled beneath the water, it took longer and longer to find the surface. Gulps of air became mixed with gulps of sea-water.

Soon, the exhausted first mate of The Moonlit no longer fought her way to the surface. The waves, however, did not tire of their game, and continued to throw her limp body between them.

Diggs was too far gone to care.

* * * * *

The sun beat down mercilessly. The tide had gone back out, leaving the ragged remains of The Moonlit's first mate beached at the high tide mark and then some. The body hadn't shown obvious signs of life for hours, but the buzzards circling overhead knew it wasn't over yet. They waited, riding the high thermals effortlessly. Then, much to their disappointment, the body jolted in the sand. The violent stutters of life caused Diggsby's limbs to thrash -- first in small twitches, then spasms that wracked her entire frame, driving her onto hands and knees. Her sides heaved in an effort to expel the seawater that was no longer there. When the dry heaves finally quieted, Diggs rolled onto her back, eyes closed as the baleful glare of the sun continued to beat down on her. Instantly, she regretted the movement. Her back was scalded a deep red and covered in blisters. She was going to have to get off the beach and go inland to find fresh water, or at least some shade.

It took all her effort to roll back over and stand up. She had broad patches all over where the waves had scoured her down the beach, stripping away skin and leaving ugly raw wounds that oozed and wept. Every movement was a new symphony of pain. Her knives were gone, too. Absently, she patted the space between her breasts where the small pouch of gold was still tucked into the bandages that had survived the storm. That was some tiny comfort. She glanced down the beach in either direction, looking for something that might tell her where she was. Nothing looked familiar. Then she assessed the terrain inland. The sand quickly gave way to rocky and hard-packed earth that sloped steeply upward. Then it appeared to level out. She spotted a few groves of trees and some rock outcroppings. Rock was good. It often meant pools of rainwater. Diggs gathered up her strength and began picking her way up the steep hillside, grabbing handfuls of the dry tan-colored grasses that grew in the sand and on the hillside alike. It was slow, but she eventually hauled herself up to where she could better survey the inland terrain. As the glimpses from the beach promised, there was a large bare rock and several boulders. Diggs staggered toward them. They couldn't have been more than a few hundred yards away, but the bedraggled first mate was fighting to stay on her feet.

When Diggs reached the rocks, she found several pockets of rainwater as she had hoped. They were hot, having been in the sun since the storm cleared, but Diggs lay down and began gulping the water, heedless of the temperature. It was a mistake. Her body, dangerously dehydrated, was not prepared for so much water so fast. Within moments, Diggs was turned away, retching violently. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Drink slowly. Little gulps. Diggs nodded to her own inner wisdom. She tried again, this time only taking a mouthful and letting it slowly trickle down her raw throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth, forcing her stomach to be still. When it quieted, she got another mouthful. Then another. Finally, she was able to drink her fill and crawl under the shade of a nearby boulder to rest.

It was full dark when she awoke. She hadn't intended to sleep so long, but she was obviously in worse shape than she realized. Diggs' stomach twisted with normal and familiar pangs of hunger. Bugger. That was something else she needed to worry about. Diggs realized she needed to move out and find food, or better yet, civilization. But not just yet. She climbed back up to where the now-cool puddles of rainwater were and drank deeply. Then, she tried to wash as much of the sand off as she could. The abrasions had started to scab-over, but they still hurt when anything touched them, as did her burned skin. Diggs carefully removed the bandage around her chest, hefting the small pouch of gold thoughtfully. She fished into the leather and pulled out a few coppers and silver for herself. The rest she wedged into a crevice down at the base of the boulders and covered with small rocks. No telling what she'd run into out there, but she was pretty certain that a half-dead, unarmed woman with a bag of gold would be irresistible for all the wrong reasons. The moon was full and high overhead. She was able to see surprisingly well. Figuring that traveling by night would be at least a little less painful than traveling during the day, Diggs set off to the north.

(( in light of the thread involving the upheaval in the Twilight Empire, I thought this was an appropriate find. There was an exercise a year or two ago called 'A Future Which Must Never Come to Pass' which speculated what would happen in the wake of Empress Aerana's assassination were it to happen. My baby paladin, Savandri, was in the Empire until problems much closer to home drove her out of the Alliance entirely. This story revolves around how that imagined future impacted her ))

She hadn't been back to Darnassus since the Sentinels had practicably thrown the Empire out. Everything had gone so wrong, so fast.

Andri lay on her bed, where she had largely remained in the few weeks since the last in a series of awful days. She hadn't reported for meetings. Hadn't contacted any of the officers as she would have normally if she foresaw an absence. It seemed mutual. No one came to the house. No messages sent. At least she assumed so. It was possible that her father saw to it none of them reached her, but she didn't think he would do that. Oddly, she wasn't sure if she cared.

There was a quiet knock on her door. The white-haired elf didn't wait long for a reply before entering. He had to stoop to negotiate the low ceiling of her small, attic room. Farion pulled up a chair to her bedside and seated himself. He looked nothing like the tiny painting that her grandfather had showed her years ago. In the picture, her uncle had looked like a softer, boyish version of her grandfather. A line of jaw. Oblique, pale eyes. Sable hair. Her own father bore the same, unmistakable stamp of the Stormfeather line. As did she. Even diluted and co-mingled with the racial tendencies of other groups -- be they High Elf or human -- those features became starkly common when set side by side.

But now, her uncle resembled one of the Highborne -- a disguise necessitated by too many years spent within the influence of Kael'thas' tainted Sunwell to be allowed into Stormwind safely. And while other magicians may have been able to detect the hints of fel energies in his magical signature, mages it seemed were an empire unto themselves. All manner of differences were set aside in the name of scholarship. And so, they kept his secret while he sought to find who had killed her grandfather. And why. It made her father's frantic over-protectiveness suddenly make sense. Not much more bearable, perhaps. But it made sense, now.

But then, things became so much worse. Some crazed horde group had begun targeting Empire citizens. Less than a year after that, the Empress herself was assassinated. And now the whole Empire seemed on the verge of collapse. Andri tried to determine how she felt about it, and all she could find was an inexplicable numbness.

Her uncle cleared his throat to ease the silence.

"I'm not leaving them," said Andri flatly.

Farion rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I didn't say you had to."

"But it's what you want, isn't it? You and my dad." Andri rolled over to face the wall.

Her uncle took a deep breath, a precursor to another sigh. "Yes. We think, under the circumstances, it would be safer if you gave up your citizenship."

Andri's voice gained an undertone of indignation. "I gave an oath to uphold the Empire's vision ---"

"Vision?" Farion cut in sharply. "Vision? What kind of vision crumbles because one, ONE person dies? A true vision survives when all but one person who ever believed in it dies! Because so long as one person with a true vision lives, the vision will spread and persist. Is that what your Empire has? Is it?"

It was one of her uncle's more brutal talents. His sharp mind cut through tangled thoughts like a sword through tangled rope. The stark simplicity of his logic was usually inescapable. Andri wanted to deny his question. Deny the logic that was so searingly simple, but she couldn't. In the chaos following Aerana's death, it was clear -- the Vision was lost.

"No," she muttered.

She heard the chair creak as her uncle sat back. "So why are you staying? Do you have friends keeping you there?"

"Yes," replied Andri. It made as much sense as anything right now.

"Oh, really?" he said. "Who?"

For some reason, the question surprised her. She rolled over to look at her uncle. "What?"

Farion looked at Andri, fingers steepled in front of his lips. "I said, 'Who?' Who are your friends, Andri? Name them."

Her mind went blank. "Uh, there's, there's...."

Farion scoffed as his niece stumbled. "Can you name me one? Just one."

"Senator Reesee," Andri shot back.

Farion's eyebrow rose. "Really? The one who will probably decide to kill you one day because your 'vision' isn't the same as hers? That's your friend?"

"Well, I...she was!"

Her uncle looked skeptical. "Mmmhm. She knows when your birthday is? What your favorite color is? The fact that you have had a crush on Officer Pomeroy for years? That you are now working on your 4th pet bunny named 'Cookie'?"

Andri felt her face heat with a keen embarrassment. "No," she replied sullenly.

Farion's steepled fingers opened into a miniature shrug, "Didn't think so." Part of Andri realized that her father had probably unleashed her uncle on her like this. Normally, Farion was reserved, rarely offering his opinions or engaging her so harshly as this. But now it was clear he was on a warpath, and she had about as much chance of stalling his assault as she did stopping a tram.

"Lieutenant Spero!" she blurted in defense. She realized that was the wrong thing to say the moment she said it. Her uncle's head leaned to one side with a look of angry incredulousness.

"Oh, I forgot... he's been by every day to ask how you were doing," the elf snarled.

"No!" Farion's voice rose to a shout as he stood, looming tall against the ceiling. "No one has! Not one!" He repeatedly stabbed the index finger he had been using to emphasize his last statement into the open palm of his other hand. "You have no friends in your Empire, Andri! They were nothing more than a bunch of sycophants, trying to curry favor with their senators and empress! Their vision was a lie!" The words were falling like blows, but the elf showed no sign of relenting. "Whoever killed Dantay is a damned hero in my book, because it finally exposed all the rot for everyone to see! Maybe now you'll have a chance to grow up and dedicate your life to something worthwhile!"

By this point, Andri was curled on her bed, crying uncontrollably. Farion turned away, unable to bear the sight of it any longer. It was as necessary as it was painful.

After watching the Happy Patch Day video, I fell down the YouTube Rabbit Hole and stumbled upon Stupid Hair. Which brought to mind this old article I wrote at my sadly-neglected WoW Blog as Cataclysm was upon us, and speculates on where one of our future expansions may come from....

As most anyone who knows me and my posting habits throughout my residence as a pixilated entity in the forum world, I can rant over just about anything. Seriously. Many of my rants are half-hearted ventings without any great passion. Others are where I've gotten caught up in the seemingly illogical statements made by others and my somewhat OCD personality drives me to get everything orderly again. And every once in a while, I'll get set off on something near and dear to my heart. I'll let you decide for yourselves which sort this is.

At first I was tempted to rant about Jaina Proudmoore and her penchant lately of reminding me of Sally Struthers, but I was warned that I might be indirectly responsible for a killing spree that would probably involve people who'd never even heard of Jaina, let alone have an opinion on whether she seems whinier these days. So I opted for safer subject matters.

Like King Varian Wrynn's hair.

Seriously... what is UP with that? Admittedly, most of the vaguely greasy-looking human hairstyles leave me underwhelmed, but I keep expecting Varian's hair to leap off his scalp and start begging for table scraps. I've seen Varian bladestorming the almost daily pre-4.0.3 For-The-Horde raids who'd come to mock our King's 'do'. I'm pretty sure it was that self-same edifice of hairspray and putty honed to deadly effect that was tearing those jeering orcs up. Now, I know he probably got this monstrosity whenever he was being dressed-up for some gladiatorial throwdown by one of my Blood Elf cousins. But come on -- this is Stormwind. We have baths. Well, okay we have canals allegedly filled with alligators, but the point is he COULD wash that thing. I quickly discarded the temptation to suggest he wear a helmet, because frankly the only thing more ridiculous-looking than his hair, would be to have some helmet precariously rattling around on one of the spires of Varian's "mall antlers". At that point, I'd be forced to curl up into a fetal position and whimper when daily orc tours of Stormwind brought the local, snickering Hordlings up to see the spectacle of my regent and his grumpy, someone-just-dragged-me-out-of-bed-by-my-pubic-hairs look. To be fair, I'd probably be cranky, too, if I had to get up at 4am every morning just to spend three hours teasing and spraying my hair into place, after feeding it breakfast.

I swear, when my stalwart Majesty finally shuffles off to join the Choir Invisible, they're going to have to bury him in a grain silo, just to contain his coiffure. Even then, it wouldn't surprise me to discover that a subsequent expansion involves The Hair, being infused with power from the Burning Legion, rises up as the new raid-boss to terrorize and threaten all of Azeroth.

Currently, though, we have Deathwing breathing down our necks, tearing up our parks and leaving mounds of poo the size of small mountains all around Azeroth. (Sounds a bit like Canadian geese, now that I think about it) Surely there is something more important for me to rant about than Varian's hair, you say.

I agree. But I promised I wasn't going to speculate in depth on Jaina's stock holdings in Kleenex this month.

This is my old cross-over series that represented my missing mains during the time that I played Warhammer. Let's just say that the characters involved in this story are scared $#!+less by the Dark Portal for a reason....

======================Sep 1, 2008 at 7:46pmPost by Xelas Stormfeather on Sep 1, 2008 at 7:46pm(( As many of you know, I will be joining the Undead Lords in Warhammer. While I will -- by necessity -- be spending an initial period of time working up a character as fast as possible, I have every intention of maintaining a presence in WoW, even though it probably means a leisurely climb to 80 for me.

The story below is my characters' introductions to UDL, and is meant to represent a parallel universe for Xelas. So fear not, and hopefully, enjoy. ))

Xelas closed his eyes and turned his face to welcome the warmth of the sun overhead, as he had done for eons, allowing its rays to kiss his skin to a warm gold. Above him, the dome of the sky was blue and cloudless. The dark-haired elf sat beside a quiet lake, listening to the hum of insects and the playful splashes of Oolaki, swimming in the shallows. The pale wolf emerged from the lake near him and bounded onto the bank. Without warning, her head began the characteristic side-to-side wag that set her entire coat in motion, dousing Xelas generously in the process.

"Ah!" squawked the elf, "miserable beast! No supper for you!" His tone was teasing, and the threat completely empty.

The wolf sneezed, which sounded suspiciously like a snicker. The lines of the wolf began to blur, resolving itself into the shape of a woman. Or troll, more precisely. She wasn't as horrific as Xelas had been taught to expect -- she was strong, with well-shaped limbs, smooth, alabaster skin and crowned with thick, silvery hair that hung to her waist. Her eyes were a bestial gold, and although her tusks could be alarming in a grin, they were little more than fangs set within pleasantly full lips. In her, he could easily see how the rumor of trolls sharing kinship with elves got started.

Theirs was an unlikely friendship. Trolls and elves had warred with one another for millennia. Finally, though, it seemed that all the old hatreds had been laid to rest. The plagues of demons and undead were a fading memory. The wars were over, and Xelas could enjoy the beauty of the world for the first time in many, many years. In his battles, Oolaki and he had both narrowly escaped enslavement to the dark forces which once threatened Azeroth. But now, they could rest.

The nightmare was over.

Overhead, a second light joined the sun in the sky.

They were free.

It trailed a sickly green-tinged smoke, as the fel-meteor sped toward the earth, impacting with a thunderous roar.

They were alive.

The sky became clotted with smoke as more meteors tore through the air, shattering the land as they struck. The elf couldn't even scream.

It was over.

The dark-haired elf sat up with a gasp, the dream still clinging to his vision, disorienting him. He glanced around the small tent, eyes adjusting to the gloom. A human woman crouched near the entry, sitting on her heels, resting her chin on arms folded across her knees. She had been watching the elf as he slept. She smiled, seemingly unaware of Xelas' distress. She began rocking back and forth, gently crooning to herself. Xelas was accustomed to her insanity.

"I had a dream about you," Xelas muttered, rubbing his eyes. "But you weren't yourself."

"Not me! not me! not me!" crooned Oolaki, with an edge of hysterical laughter in her voice. She grinned, showing teeth, broken and filed to sharp points. She might have been pretty, once, but a blade of some kind -- ritual or not, Xelas never knew -- had taken the companion to the orb that regarded him with an almost feverish intensity. The empty socket was often covered by a fall of coarse brown hair. But now she tilted her head, birdlike, until her hair fell away, displaying the ruin of her face. She lurched forward, crawling on hands and knees until she reached Xelas, and grasped his pale wrist, tugging gently. Her touch was strangely soothing as always, but it had a soul-chilling quality that seemed incongruous to her rough, dark hands.

"Come, come!" she called, sing-song. "Can't you hear them? They want us to come...they want us...." Her the edges of her grin drooped slightly, looking more and more like a rictus of agony, as the mad priestess began to curl over herself with a whimper.

The tug of power was inexorable. The Daemon scented to it with a greedy glee. It was formless on this plane, still larval, seeking a suit of flesh to house it as it grew. Its Master had already granted it many gifts. It hoped to earn many more, soon -- perhaps even one day to become a Prince -- but it was patient for its kind. It would seek to avoid the hasty, prideful mistakes that was the downfall of so many of its brethren. It would weave slow, careful snares, beautiful in their cruelty. This coating of flesh would just be the start.

The Daemon skimmed over a battlefield, ripe with carnage and suffering. It was closer to the host it sought. The power that drew the daemon had a hint, a taste that was distinctly inhuman, but the exact quality of it eluded the entity. As the insubstantial daemon slid over a hill, covered in corpses, it spied a High elf. He lay dying, curled over another body, still trying to defend it even as the last of his life was bleeding away. The daemon would have to hurry. Death would bar the door to this beautiful, strong sheath of flesh. The daemon pushed itself inside all openings at once, struggling to meet at the physical core of its soon-to-be host. Yet, something was wrong. The daemon felt the flesh restore around it, but the bond was not forming. Frantic, the daemon dug deeper and deeper, pushing beyond the boundaries of flesh in an effort to capture the fleeting soul it intended to subjugate and eventually consume. Around it, the flesh of the elf jolted, convulsing with renewed life. The daemon heard him screaming with the pain of remembered mortal wounds. For a horrifying moment, the daemon felt itself cast away, disembodied once again, but it was relentless. It had the soul it wanted in its grasp, furiously penetrating back into the flesh of its host.

The bond formed with a vicious, wrenching disorientation that buried the daemon under a blanket of unconsciousness. The host rolled over, vomiting, as much from pain as the dizzying twist of spirit. She heard screams nearby. She blinked as the dim light of the battlefield lanced into her eyes, ending in a stabbing headache. Her skull felt full to bursting. Carefully, she turned her head and moved toward the sound. By this time, Xelas was curled onto himself, whimpering. She leaned over to smooth his dark hair, calling upon her power to ease his pain. He quieted, turning stiffly to regard her.

"Ula... are you all right?" he inquired, too exhausted to express his amazement.

Ula cradled her head, fighting the waves of nausea and the thundering agony in her skull. "I don't know" she croaked. "I don't think I've ever felt such pain before."

The elf grunted in agreement as he surveyed the battlefield. His keen eyes could see that there were a few skirmishes being fought in the distance, but around them there was naught but scavengers, come to feed upon the dead and dying. He stood slowly, then helped Ula to her feet. She swayed, and he caught her in the crook of his arm, steadying her.

"Here, lean on me, Ula. I can get us both back to camp," said Xelas.

Ula felt too sick to protest. She clung to the elf as he guided her back to the war camp.

-----

Captain Kalder Tannenbach glanced up from the maps he was pouring over as a shout went up from the perimeter of the camp. He snatched up his helm, pulling it on. A guard was guiding two wounded soldiers up the hill toward the enclave. Outside, a young mage, Farion, had joined him. It took only moments for the slender, dark-haired elf to recognize the pair.

"Father!" he cried, rushing down the hill to aid the elf and human, slowly working their way to safety. Tannenbach frowned with concern. Xelas Stormfeather was one of his better scouts. To see him returning only with a lone warrior priestess, hinted at disaster. He'd had no reports from the southwestern company in quite some time, and this suggested why.

Both were in bad shape, covered in blood and filth from the battlefield. Their movements indicated they were wounded, though at least walking. Farion joined his father in aiding the Sigmarite priestess Ula Haagi, who seemed to be in the most trouble.

As they finally made their way into the camp, Tannenbach had to fight a wave of revulsion. Something putrid clung to the pair. There was nothing physical to warn of this... infection. But he had seen too many become twisted by the Chaos Wastes not to recognize its foul influence. He could not allow that taint to manifest. But, it would be a hard blow to his already frightened and desperate troops. Both were well-liked. To see them return, only to be taken out and slaughtered like mad dogs could break his army's badly weakened morale.

No, better that they be taken in and debriefed as quickly and quietly as possible, and sent out with a small detail of soldiers whom he knew would understand the grim necessity of their orders. He leaned over to his Lieutenant, Harsfort

"Get them into the Operations hut for debriefing," he said quietly. "No attendants except two of Palfrey's men. Start quelling rumors of their return. I want a detail saddled and ready at the east edge of the camp within an hour. Make sure they can stomach getting their hands dirty." Hartsfort saluted and set immediately to his unpleasant tasks. Tannenbach watched as his Lieutenant took over guiding the wounded soldiers toward the Operations hut. His grim expression only deepened.

Sigmar, forgive me! he prayed...for all the good it would do. There would likely be some other unfortunate losses before the day was over. His gaze drifted over to young Farion, already beginning to protest against Hartsfort separating him from his wounded father.

Guilt rose, sour in his mouth and heavy on his chest. There would be no forgiveness in this. Only bitter survival if they were lucky.